


On Shame

by Eglantine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU, Canon Era, Duelling, F/M, Marius being a goober, era-appropriate sexism, non-graphic descriptions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6865552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cosette sees a handsome lancer through her garden gate, and runs away with him.</p><p>Aunt Gillenormand dispatches one nephew in search of the other one.</p><p>Somehow, this makes (many) things go a lot better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Shame

He had passed that way daily, and once or twice their eyes had met and both had smiled. So she could never say (and to be frank, nor could he) why it was that, on that particular day when she smiled and he smiled, he murmured something to his companion, then his companion continued on his way and the lancer turned and strode towards her garden fence. 

Cosette shied a few steps away as he drew near, but then her boldness returned, and she returned to the fence, and wrapped a hand around the bars. 

“How do you do,” the lancer said. 

“Well, thank you,” she said, lowering her eyes demurely. “And how do you do?”

“Oh, very well,” the lancer replied. “I have long admired this garden.”

“It is very fine, is it not?” Cosette asked. “I do love it.” 

“Such fair flowers,” the lancer said. There was something in his eye as he said it, a sort of look— she didn’t know why, but it made her blush. Suddenly, he backed away and snapped a sharp bow. “Lieutenant Théodule Gillenormand, at your service, mademoiselle.”

She laughed and curtseyed in return. “Cosette Fauchelevent.” 

“I have seen you here very often,” Lieutenant Gillenormand said. “I am at the barracks just down the way.”

“Yes, I know which you mean. I do come out here, oh! Most every day. Especially now that the weather is so fine.” 

Lieutenant Gillenormand smiled. “Then I am sure we will speak again.” 

*

To be frank, Marius had no idea how his aunt kept finding him. He could not help but think, had she been a man, she would have proved a terrifyingly competent soldier or spy. But instead she was an elderly woman, uncannily adept at tracking her wayward nephew through Paris in order to send him money he didn’t want, and which she did not particularly care about giving. 

And one day, she ended up at his door. Or, rather, at Courfeyrac’s door, where he had been staying, at that point, for about six weeks, and where he arrived to find Courfeyrac and his aunt seated together. He could do nothing but stand, stunned, in the doorway until Aunt Gillenormand was at last forced to rise and drag him inside. 

“Now, Marius,” she said, clearly deeming any pretense of a joyful reunion unnecessary. “You must go to your cousin.”

“My… cousin?” Marius looked helplessly to Courfeyrac, but his expression of glee at witnessing this Pontmercy family drama was of no use whatsoever, so he was forced to turn his gaze back to his aunt. “I don’t think I have ever met him…”

“You have, you have!” Aunt Gillenormand said impatiently. “When you were children, I am sure of it, and in any case, it is beside the point. You must go to him. I have found out where he is, and you must go.”

“If— if you know where he is, why must I go? And what must I do? Aunt, I—”

“Because it is not for an old woman like myself to meddle in romantic affairs!” she huffed. “He will not mind it from me, he must hear it from another young person. Bring your friend here,” she added, nodding to Courfeyrac, whose grin only broadened. “He seems like a sensible person. Go at once.”

“Romantic affairs?” Marius could feel himself blushing, even though there was no earthly reason for it. “I really don’t… I don’t want…” 

“He has run away with a girl,” Aunt Gillenormand interrupted flatly. “Stolen her away from her father’s house. Her father found her missing, and after making inquiries, some of the other officers mentioned that they had seen her and Theodule speaking through her garden gate for several weeks now. You must go and find out what is going on.” 

Marius was bright red now. “Then shame on him! But I am not… not at all the person to…”

“Do not trouble yourself, Mademoiselle Gillenormand,” Courfeyrac said, rising from his seat and sliding an arm around Marius’s shoulders. “Your nephew and I will see it done.” 

“Good.” She thrust a piece of paper into Courfeyrac’s hand. “This is the address. Come tell me how it goes.”

At this, Marius stiffened. “I will not—”

Aunt Gillenormand cried impatiently, “Oh, I will see that your grandfather does not know of your being there, if you insist. But do it quickly! And come to me soon!” 

And with that, she was gone. 

“Well,” Marius said, turning to Courfeyrac. “What do we do?”

“Why, we go, of course,” Courfeyrac replied. “I know you do not like your family, and I have never inquired about why— I think there’s no need to force a man to speak of such things, plenty of our friends are on the outs with their parents for plenty of reasons— but your aunt has come to you, and I believe you should lend a hand. For the sake of this girl, whoever she is, if no one else.”

Marius frowned. “Yes. I suppose you’re right. And I needn’t speak to them again, after. But it would be the honorable thing to do.” 

“I believe it would,” Courfeyrac agreed. “Come, we’ll go today. There’s no time to lose.” 

*

Aunt Gillenormand’s address led them well off the beaten path, nearly to the outer edge of the city limits, and a slightly shabby inn located there. Lieutenant Gillenormand was cleverer than to leave his own name, but with a bit of pressing— a bit of charm from Courfeyrac— assurances that they were friends of the young lancer who had arrived in company of a young woman, come to surprise them and take them to supper— the innkeeper relented and told them where the young couple could be found. Marius lifted his hand to knock on the door when they reached it, but Courfeyrac shook his head and tried the knob: it turned, and he eased the door open. 

The scene he revealed seemed straight from any maiden aunt’s worst nightmares: wine bottles and glasses strewn about the floor, a bed in disarray, the curtains drawn midafternoon, and in the middle of the room, he stripped down to his drawers and she to her petticoats with his schapka on her head, Théodule was showing Cosette how to hold his cavalry sabre. 

“Well,” Courfeyrac said. Théodule and Cosette both turned, Théodule with a look of extreme alarm, Cosette (and this both Marius and Courfeyrac would remember vividly, later) with only an expression of curious surprise, as calm as if she had only been interrupted sewing— though she did quickly cross her arms over the thin fabric of her chemise and turn away. 

“—Pontmercy?” Théodule said, bewildered. 

But Marius’s eyes had gone very wide, and it quickly became clear that he could not speak, and so Courfeyrac stepped in. “Your great-aunt paid us a visit. Word of this has gotten out—your fellow officers have betrayed you, I’m afraid. Well, I’ve always said you can’t trust a soldier— not until they’re fighting at your side, anyway. Shall we give you a moment to dress?” 

Théodule ran a hand through his hair, then sighed. All in all, he had an air of faint disappointment, like a boy who has noticed that the sun is setting and he must come inside— no point in protesting nature, nothing to be done.

“Yes, thank you,” he said. 

Courfeyrac nodded shortly, and shut the door. Then he turned to Marius. “What on earth is wrong with you? Are you alright?” 

“That— that girl—” Marius said faintly. “I know her. That girl.” 

“Do you?” Courfeyrac said, surprised. “I didn’t know you knew any girls at all. Well, we’ll see what we can make your cousin do for her.” 

“Do for her,” Marius echoed, still in a daze, which Courfeyrac took to be close enough to agreement. The door opened, and Lieutenant Gillenormand stepped out. He had thrown on his uniform with haste, his jacket still hung unbuttoned. He shut the door behind him.

“She’s still dressing,” he said. “So, you’re emissaries from my Aunt Gillenormand.”

“Just so,” Courfeyrac said. “She seemed to think we would have more influence over you than an old lady would.”

Théodule snorted. “A stranger, and a cousin I’ve never met? Well, she does get funny ideas. And what is it you are to attempt to influence me to do?”

“Come now,” Courfeyrac said. There was a touch of the aristocrat in his bearing towards Théodule, enough that even his distracted state, Marius noticed the shift in his manner. “You know how these things go. You’ve been caught. You know what you must do.” 

“I know nothing of the kind,” Théodule said. “My regiment’s off for Chartres in three weeks, and let me tell you, I’ll be happy to leave Paris behind.” 

Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed. He said, a hint of ice sneaking into his tone, “That’s not what a gentleman would do.” 

“Gentleman or not, I’m also only a lieutenant. I don’t have the money to marry now,” Théodule said. “She’s a good-natured girl, she’ll be fine.” 

“She’ll be ruined, and you know it!” Marius cried suddenly, fervently, and both Courfeyrac and Théodule looked over at him in surprise. 

“I don’t know that there’s a great deal to ruin,” Théodule said, as calm as his cousin was strangely agitated. “Her father is nobody, she has no place in society. I don’t think anyone knows who she is.”

Courfeyrac frowned, his gaze drifting up towards the ceiling as if looking for an answer there. When he looked back to Théodule, he said: “Very well. Go, then. If you’re right—if no one ever knows the difference— then we wish you the best of luck in Chartres, and with explaining this all to your aunt. But if it becomes known— by any means, do you see?— then do not doubt but you shall hear from us again.” 

“Understood.” Théodule bowed ironically. “What a knight in shining armor you are. Good day, monsieur— good day, Cousin Pontmercy.” 

Théodule had not taken two steps before Marius tried to pursue him, but Courfeyrac held him back.

“Why did you do that?” Marius demanded, shaking himself free from Courfeyrac’s grip. “Why did you let him go?”

“Because-- why not spare the girl being married to that wretch if we can?” Courfeyrac said, still gazing in the direction Théodule had gone. “I very much hope that no harm at all will come of this, and both of them can be permitted to pretend that it never happened.” 

At that moment, the door opened once more, and the girl stepped into the hall. She glanced around uncertainly, plainly looking for Théodule— and then her gaze fell on Marius.

“You!” she gasped, her eyes going wide. Marius looked coldly at her and then looked away. At which point, for the first time in the evening, she began to look quite distressed. 

“Come, mademoiselle,” Courfeyrac said, quickly offering her his arm. “We will take you home to your father. I am Jean-Gaspard Courfeyrac, and this is the lieutenant’s cousin, Marius Pontmercy.” 

“I—” She took the offered arm uncertainly. “I am Cosette. Fauchelevent. I do not know… where has Théodule gone?” 

“He left,” Marius said shortly. “To return to his regiment.”

“And we are returning you home,” Courfeyrac said in a much gentler manner. “Your father is most anxious about you, I am told.” 

From her calm in their moment of discovery, Cosette seemed to have slipped into a daze no less impenetrable than Marius’s of a few minutes before. 

“Yes,” she said softly. “I will go with you.” 

The ride back to Rue Plumet, where she lived, was silent. Near the end of the ride, Cosette broke it tentatively by saying, “You are called Marius?” 

But Marius did not respond.

Her father hurried out of the house at the sight of the carriage, and was waiting to open the door when they pulled to a stop. Cosette tumbled out and into his arms, and he had barely time to murmur his thanks before bundling her, with the help of a maidservant, into the house. As soon as they were gone, Courfeyrac fixed Marius with a glare.

“What?” Marius asked, startled.

“Really!” Courfeyrac said. “What use is there in being so cold?” He climbed out of the carriage, and Marius followed suit. “The girl does not deserve such treatment.”

“Does she not?” Marius cried, though his certainty was tarnished somewhat by Courfeyrac’s indignant expression. “Why, you saw her face! To have— to have no shame at all, to be discovered in such a state--!” 

“And why should she be ashamed?” Courfeyrac retorted. “Why she, more than your cousin?”

“I think he should be ashamed, too,” Marius muttered. 

Courfeyrac couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Well. At least you are equal in your prudishness. Oh, don’t look so offended— really, Marius, it _happens._ I take mistresses, and so do most of our friends. And it is entirely unfair to say— what? That she must be more ashamed because… Théodule is your cousin? Because she is bourgeoise? Oh, stop blushing and think about it!” 

Marius, blushing brighter, shook his head and looked away. “I don’t…” 

“Do,” Courfeyrac said shortly. “Do, for a moment, think about it. We are told that it is wrong, to do such things before we are married. But everyone knows that men do it anyway, it is only women who carry the blame. Is this just?” 

“…no,” Marius was forced to concede. “It is not.” 

“You concern yourself with the plight of women, I know this,” Courfeyrac said. “Well! This is where it begins: think how many women of less means than Mademoiselle Fauchelevent are forced into destitution and prostitution because they make the choice she made and are shunned for it? And then one must wonder— by what logic do we believe this, anyway? That a man may be praised and a woman must be punished for doing such deeds without the church’s say-so? By the same logic, perhaps, that tells us that some men are born to rule others? By that which declares that a king is inviolable, infallible, divine?” 

“It is not only that!” Marius burst out, in a tone which made Courfeyrac pause.

“What is it, then?” he asked. “Because I do not think of you as an unkind fellow— but that was unkindly done.” 

So Marius explained. About the Luxembourg Gardens, about seeing her (“I _thought_ that old man looked familiar!” Courfeyrac cried. “Good old Monsieur Leblanc!”), about the glances they exchanged, the silent conversations they had… about her abrupt disappearance, and startling reappearance under the most unlikely of circumstances (the same circumstances which had driven him to stay with Courfeyrac, though on that incident he declined to elaborate) just under two months before. 

“So,” Courfeyrac said at last. “I am to understand that you never actually approached her?”

“No,” Marius said.

“You never spoke?”

“Well, no.” 

“You only have a handkerchief? Which plainly isn’t her handkerchief anyway, since her name doesn’t start with U?” 

“…that is correct.” 

“…and you will really try to say that she owed you some kind of loyalty? Oh! By all means, be as wounded and jealous as you please! I understand, and will not blame you. But do not blame _her_ for breaking a promise she never made.” 

Marius stopped. It seemed to him that if this was so, then he had behaved abominably— worse, by far, than anything he proposed to accuse Cosette of. And he could not fault Courfeyrac’s logic (he never could) beyond the fact that it sent him tumbling (as, it seemed, it so often did) into a mire of uncertainty. 

“It does not matter,” Marius said, and it seemed to Courfeyrac that he could almost see Marius gathering up all the wounded and embarrassed and bewildered pieces of himself and storing them behind a hastily erected wall of pride. “She did not think of me as I have thought of her, so. It does not matter.”

* 

How does news of such an incident spread? Fauchelevent and his daughter would readily have sworn that no one knew of it aside from the gentleman in question, his cousin, and his cousin’s friend— but somehow, by the time they went to church that Sunday, it was a known fact. Cosette could feel eyes upon her as they made their way down the aisle to their habitual pew, could hear whispers and knew with increasing certainty that she was their subject. She felt her cheeks go hot, and she spend the mass glaring down at her own hands, clenched tight in her lap. 

When they got home, Cosette rushed to her room. When several hours had passed and still she did not emerge, Fauchelevent made his way up and knocked softly on the door. When there was no response, he eased it open. 

Cosette was seated on the edge of her bed, hastily scrubbing at her cheeks so that she could offer her father a smile. But as he sat beside her, he fixed her with a look of such tenderness that she found herself bursting into tears once more. 

“I have never had so many people look at me before!” she cried. “And the things I heard them saying!” 

They sat that way for some time, saying nothing, her head in his lap. At last, she sat up and tried to dry her eyes. Her father had never questioned her, never demanded anything of her— but she could see, as she straightened, that he was silently struggling with a question now. 

“Ask it, Papa,” she said softly. He shook his head, and she said again, “Papa.”

“Why did you go with him?” he asked after a long silence. 

She said, “I did not think it was wrong.” 

“But how?” In his surprise, the question popped out before he could reconsider it. More gently, he said, “Surely the sisters, ladies at church, you heard them speak of—”

“Of wicked men,” Cosette said. “Who do evil things. But I never thought of that, because Théodule is not wicked. He was nothing but polite and charming, and I so enjoyed being with him— it all came so naturally— I did not see how it could be wrong.” 

Her father suddenly hung his head. “Then it is my fault.”

“No, Papa, no!” she cried. “It is not! If I must blame anyone, I shall blame him, for leading me to what he must have known was— was wrong.” 

She frowned faintly as she said it. Even now, it didn’t _feel_ wrong. She understood plainly enough that it was, but she did not feel guilt or shame, as she was sure she ought to when contemplating a truly wicked deed. 

She thought perhaps she must have loved him, but she found that her dominant feeling at his continued absence was a kind of irritated disappointment— that he should leave her alone to face this sudden scorn from all quarters; that he should go away without saying goodbye. Why, she had felt far sadder at being parted from that young man in the park…

Marius Pontmercy. It was such a funny name, and for him to have appeared so suddenly at such a time— she was almost inclined to think his presence was a dream, an imagined reminder of the shame she ought to be feeling but somehow could not. 

(And she could not help but wonder, from time to time, if it had been Marius Pontmercy who appeared at her garden gate… would she have gone with him, too? But he had not even managed to speak to her in the park. He would never have asked.) 

The next day brought proof, however, that it had been no dream. Toussaint called her down from her room (for she spent little time in the garden now), and she entered the sitting room to find the two gentlemen, Monsieur Courfeyrac and Monsieur Pontmercy. In contrast to his cold looks in the carriage, Monsieur Pontmercy seemed embarrassed, his eyes on the floor. Monsieur Courfeyrac was as unruffled as before, though his expression carried now a hint of gravity. 

“Mademoiselle Fauchelevent,” he said. “How are you?”

“I am well enough, messieurs,” Cosette replied. “I fear I have not properly thanked you.”

“There is no need, no need at all,” Monsieur Courfeyrac said. “Now, um… we came to bring you news of Lieutenant Gillenormand, but… Marius, why don’t you explain?”

But Marius just blushed and shook his head. Courfeyrac sighed. “Right. Well, hearing that— that there were some rumors drifting around regarding the lieutenant and you, we decided to call on him and encourage him to step up and do the honorable thing. To our dismay, he proved very reticent on that front, and—”

“I challenged him,” Marius burst out suddenly. “To a duel.” 

Cosette blinked. “What?” 

*

“How did that _happen?_ ” Combeferre asked. His shock was nicely counterpoised by Bahorel’s helpless laughter. 

“I can’t entirely say,” Courfeyrac said. “Up to that point, he’d been acting like the most horrible prig about the whole thing. But when his cousin flatly refused to consider marriage— said there was no way we could force him, which is true, of course— suddenly Marius called him out. Marius seemed quite as shocked about it as anyone.”

“I do love that Marius,” Bahorel laughed. “One never has the faintest idea what he’s going to do next.” 

“What we must do next is find a way to prevent this duel from happening,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre nodded agreement. Bahorel shifted at once to a more serious expression.

“What weapons?” Bahorel asked.

“Pistols.” 

“Ah,” Bahorel said. “Well, that was sporting of the lieutenant. Better odds for Pontmercy than swords, though I can’t imagine the little fellow having much luck with either.” 

“That was what I thought,” Courfeyrac said. “So I took him to practice shooting, in hopes that it would scare some sense into him.” 

“To no avail?” Combeferre asked. “Well, that’s not a great surprise. Pontmercy can be very stubborn.”

“No,” Courfeyrac said. “He’s a shockingly good shot. Terrifyingly good. If he ever gives over the law, he’s got a career as a sharpshooter to fall back on. I’ve never seen the like.”

“So what’s the problem?” Bahorel asked. “Let him fight, he probably won’t get killed.”

“I’m not worried about him getting killed,” Courfeyrac said. “We need to keep him from killing his cousin.” 

“You’re his second?” Bahorel asked.

“Naturally. And I did my best to get out of this, but Marius is implacable. He has a very refined sense of honor for a boy with holes in his boots.” 

“We could poison him,” Combeferre said flatly. At Courfeyrac and Bahorel’s shocked looks, he quickly clarified, “Not lethally. Dose him with a purgative, render him incapable of fighting.” He frowned. “But I would hate to do it. It’s such a delicate process, and I wouldn’t be able to control the dose properly. And Marius can hardly stand to be any skinnier than he is.” 

Bahorel was silent for a moment, brow furrowed. The he nodded decisively, as if in agreement with an argument that had just taken place in his own head. “Right, then. I have an idea. It isn’t very kind, but it’s safer than poisoning him-- though I do deeply appreciate that glimpse into the depths of your cruelty, Combeferre. I’ll show you what to do.” 

*

The place was the Bois du Boulogne, a spot which had never entirely recovered from serving as a camping ground for several thousand British and Russian soldiers in the wake of Napoleon’s defeat. It was a thoroughly dreary landscape where no one ever went, which made it ideally suited for dueling. 

“It still isn’t too late, you know,” Courfeyrac reminded Marius as their fiacre made its way towards the field. The sun was only just beginning to rise. Combeferre, called upon to act as doctor, sat at Marius’s side, his bag set on his knees. 

“I am going to fight him,” Marius said. “There is nothing more to say. I don’t care if I die.”

“But what a stupid way to be killed,” Combeferre said impatiently. “Really, Marius, if you want to die, we can think of a thousand better ways for you to do it.” 

Marius lowered his eyes and said nothing. Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchanged a look over his bowed head. 

When they arrived, they could see through the window that Théodule was already present. Neither he nor his second were in uniform, but it was plain from the man’s bearing that his second was also an officer. 

The fiacre slowed to a stop, and Courfeyrac at once sprang out of the door. He offered a hand to help Marius down, which Marius took. Over his head, Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchanged one last glance. Combeferre winced, then seized hold of Marius’s other arm and set a hand against his back. He pushed, Courfeyrac pulled, and Marius tumbled out of the fiacre with a wail of pain as his shoulder popped out of joint. 

Combeferre was on his knees at Marius’s side in an instant, while Courfeyrac strolled cheerfully to greet the rather startled Théodule.

“What an unfortunate accident,” he said. “It seems I’ll have to take his place. You have the pistols? Let’s get this over with.” 

Théodule’s second provided the pistols, and the two took up their positions. Courfeyrac immediately pointed his pistol towards the sky. Théodule laughed.

“Oh, that’s no fun. Very well.” He raised his pistol, too, and both fired into the air.

“Right, then. I’m satisfied,” Courfeyrac said. “So nice to see you again, let’s hope it’s the last time.” 

“Is he alright?” Théodule asked, glancing back at Marius and Combeferre.

“He’ll be fine,” Courfeyrac said. “Certainly better off than if he’d been shot.” 

“Oh, come, I wouldn’t have shot a civilian,” Théodule said. “I’m not a scoundrel.”

“Or only towards women, at least,” Courfeyrac replied cheerfully. “Well! Don’t let’s quarrel, one duel in a day is quite enough for me. Good day, lieutenant.”

And with that, he turned back to rejoin Marius and Combeferre. Or Combeferre, at least, as Marius appeared to have—

“Fainted,” Combeferre said. “I started trying to put the joint back in, and— well, it is an exceedingly painful process. Here, hold him, we’ll do it quickly, while he’s still unconscious.” 

This done (and from the look of it, Courfeyrac imagined it was indeed terribly painful, if one was awake to feel it), they bundled him into the fiacre and started back towards Paris. 

“Is that that, then?” Combeferre asked.

“I hope so,” Courfeyrac said. “We must go report to his aunt. We’d hoped to put it off until we had news of Théodule’s intentions to give her… which I suppose we do, now. I only wish it was more helpful.” 

“You’ve done what you can. Ah!” Marius was starting to stir from his place slumped against Combeferre’s side. Combeferre carefully helped him to sit up straight. “There you are! Bravo. You survived your first duel.” 

*

Once again, Cosette came into the sitting room when Toussaint called her, and found Marius Pontmercy standing there. He was alone this time, looking very pale, and his right arm was bound up in a sling. For the first time, she couldn’t help but notice how very bad his shoes were, how shiny the knees of his trousers, how worn-out his coat. He could not have looked less like his trim, rosy-cheeked, fair-haired cousin. 

“He wounded you!” she cried, rushing forward to help him into a seat. Toussaint discreetly retreated to a chair in the corner. 

“Not exactly,” he said wryly. “I met with an accident. Courfeyrac faced him in my place. And so I came to apologize.” 

She sank down onto the sofa beside him. “Apologize? I am sure there is no need.” 

“Yes, there is,” he said fervently. “I said I would— I would fight on your behalf, and I did not. It solved nothing, changed nothing, I did not help you at all.” 

“I— I do appreciate that you feel responsible for what your cousin has done,” Cosette said carefully. “But it is not your duty to help me. You must not trouble yourself on that account.” 

“Someone ought to take responsibility for it, if he won’t,” Marius said darkly. But then he shook his head and said, “But it isn’t, it’s not… I want to help you. And— and— I wish to apologize again. For the way I behaved when— when Courfeyrac and I found the two of you. And after.” 

Cosette shook her head, looking down at her hands. “You behaved no differently than most people have. I do not blame you for it.” 

And then, the sight of Cosette— just as the thought of Cosette had in the moment he challenged Théodule— filled him with— he did not know what to call it. The desire to reach out to take her hands in his, the will to impress her, the need to protect her, the longing to have her look at him not politely or sadly but as if she trusted him and knew he trusted her. 

“I do not want to behave like most people!” he cried. “I am ashamed to think of it, I can imagine no worse fate than for you to think no better of me than of most people— and those people wicked gossips, at that! Mademoiselle—” But the wave of passion ebbed, and he found himself embarrassed by the outburst, and stopped. 

“So you…” Cosette glanced uncertainly towards Toussaint, there in the corner. “You do not— are not… you still..?” 

Marius, feeling equally aware of Toussaint’s presence, said quietly, “I did not think I would ever see you again. I am sure you thought the same.”

“But you…” She ventured a smile. “You were very cold to me, monsieur.” Marius’s face fell into a look of dismay, she said quickly, “Oh, I am only teasing you! I do not doubt it was a very great shock, to come across such a scene, to so suddenly see... But then… but then you have been so solicitous of my honor since.” She laid a hand very gently, carefully, on top of his. “I owe you and Monsieur Courfeyrac such a debt of gratitude, Monsieur Pontmercy.” 

“You do not,” Marius said. “I have succeeded in doing nothing for you yet. But— but I will. I— I will marry you. If you will have me.” 

Cosette’s eyes grew wide, and Toussaint leapt to her feet in shock. “Marry me?”

“Yes,” Marius said, beginning to turn red. “If you wish. If— as Théodule will not, and as… as I… that it to say, it would silence any whispers about you, and beyond that it is… that is, I am, I would… be very happy. To— to do it. But I must speak to my grandfather first. If you would like.” 

“I…” She looked from Marius to Toussaint and back again. “I must speak to my father. I must consider. I… thank you.” 

*

“I suppose I should tell you,” Marius said as he and Courfeyrac approached the door of his grandfather’s house, “that I have offered marriage to Cosette Fauchelevent.” 

“What! Marius!” Courfeyrac cried. “I realize you are out of practice when it comes to telling people about yourself, but you might have given me a little more warning than that! Do you intend to tell your aunt what you have done?”

“I intend to ask my grandfather’s permission,” he said.

“That is—” They had reached the door. “Well, there is no time now. We will discuss this later.”

Marius nodded briskly and pushed open the door. 

Courfeyrac found the Gillenormand household uncomfortably familiar. The conscious old-fashionedness, the constant and imposing reminders of the wealth of the occupants. It was just like his parents’ home in Gascony. He found he couldn’t really blame Marius for not wanting to come back. 

This impression only intensified when they were welcomed to the presence of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Gillenormand, and were greeted by the former with, “Well! So you’re back at last, are you? What happened to your arm?”

“Yes,” Marius said shortly. The second question he ignored. “We have been to see Théodule. He refuses to marry Mademoiselle Fauchelevent.” 

“Does he!” This ignited a tirade from Monsieur Gillenormand on the subject of his grand-nephew: how he was a blackguard, how all officers are good-for-nothing skirt-chasers, how a real man takes responsibility for such mistakes just as Monsieur Gillenormand himself has done— really, Courfeyrac would almost have been inclined to find the sentiments admirable, had they all not been framed as insults towards Mademoiselle Gillenormand for an occasion upon which she had, apparently, attempted to introduce Théodule to Monsieur Gillenormand and work the lieutenant into his good graces. 

(A great deal about Marius’s strange, awkward reticence was falling into place for Courfeyrac in this moment.) 

“I have offered to marry her,” Marius said abruptly. Which at least had the benefit of striking Monsieur Gillenormand dumb. Then he laughed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Do not throw your life away for your cousin’s mistake. If she had any money at all, I’m sure that lancer would be sprinting down the aisle, but as it is… what’s done is done. I feel sorry for the girl, but so it is.” 

“Monsieur!” Marius cried indignantly. 

“Monsieur,” Courfeyrac echoed, more calmly. “The girl is already the subject of the worst kind of gossip. You said yourself that your nephew ought to take responsibility for what he has done. Well! He will not, but Marius will. It is the best possible end to the whole affair.” 

“Best possible end!” Monsieur Gillenormand snorted. “To waste himself on a marriage to a nobody? And who are you, anyway? One of these radicals, these Jacobins?” 

“Oh, you can count on that,” Courfeyrac said. “And I am your grandson’s friend.” 

“I will not consent,” Monsieur Gillenormand said flatly. “What do you make of that? I do not consent, so do not think of it anymore.”

“You must consent!” Marius cried. “For I have dueled Théodule over it. I am no less entangled than he. It is my responsibility no less than his. If you would have him marry her, why, you may expect no less of me.” (Courfeyrac felt that, really, there was no point in clarifying who exactly fought the duel.)

“Don’t be a fool, Marius!” The old man seemed to soften, but then said, “Come, boy, don’t you think you deserve better than your cousin’s leavings?” 

For a moment, Courfeyrac really did think Marius would strike his grandfather. But instead he turned sharply to Courfeyrac and said, “Come, let us go. I will await word of your consent, monsieur.” 

And he turned and left the room, Courfeyrac hurrying after. Courfeyrac was sure Marius did not breathe until they were out the door and back on the street, at which point he took in a long, shaking breath and then let it out in a huff. 

“Well then!” Courfeyrac said, clapping Marius on the shoulder. “I think I must congratulate you on your escape from that old relic. You did very well.” He gave him a gentle shake, and gradually he could see the stiffness melt out of the set of Marius’s shoulders. “But you’re locked into it now— you really must marry her. You realize that, don’t you?” 

“From what you said before, I thought you would try to dissuade me,” Marius said with a faint smile.

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t now, after that display!” Courfeyrac laughed. “But really— much as I hate the thought that a woman’s only hope of relief from such a situation is marriage, my telling you not to marry Mademoiselle Fauchelevent would not change that. I only hope you realize what you have agreed to.” 

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Well, you are only twenty-one!” 

“And you are only twenty-five! You are barely my elder.” 

“Old enough to remind you that you must go speak to her father,” Courfeyrac said. “I suppose you hadn’t thought to do that.”

“No,” Marius admitted. “It all happened very suddenly, and he was not present. But I will do so, I will do it at once.” 

“And other arrangements, you may leave to me,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully. “I have been your second in a duel, and I shall be your second in this. Only this time, I will beg to be excused standing for you.” 

* 

Marius watched recognition slowly dawn on the face of Monsieur Fauchelevent as they sat opposite one another. He almost expected him to say it— _you are the boy from the Luxembourg Gardens_ — but he did not. 

“Does your arm pain you, monsieur?” Monsieur Fauchelevent asked. “You are very pale.”

“I— I hope very much to gain your goodwill, monsieur,” Marius replied. “You have little enough cause, I know, to trust the men of my family. And I have little enough to offer, as a husband. I suppose my coat speaks for me in that. But I have studied law, and I shall begin to practice it. And I shall be kind to your daughter, monsieur. I shall love her.” 

“I would gladly keep her here with me,” Monsieur Fauchelevent said quietly. “But I would much rather see her spared the scorn she has faced these past days. I would be happy to see her marry you, monsieur.” He paused for a moment. “I cannot help but feel I am somewhat to blame, for keeping her so close all these years.” Another pause. “As for the money, you must not trouble yourself. Mademoiselle Fauchelevent has an inheritance— no small amount.”

“Oh,” Marius said, startled. “I see.” He frowned. “But why do you refer to her that way?” 

“Because there is something more I must say,” Monsieur Fauchelevent said. “I have known all too well how disgrace may stain a life— and have been reminded of it these past days, in case I happened to forget! And that is why I must tell you what I am now going to tell you. And why, after I have done so— after you are wed— I must go away.” 

*

As Marius made his way out of the sitting room, Cosette was waiting in the foyer to intercept him. He seemed very startled to see her; she smiled. 

“Have you been speaking to Papa, then?” she asked. “I thought now you might speak to me. Won’t you come sit in the garden with me?” Marius looked uncertain, and she reached to take his hand. Perhaps it was bold of her to do so, but, she thought, what difference could it make now? “We ought to talk, if we are to be married.”

“Yes,” Marius said, giving his head a small shake as if to clear it. “You’re right. I would like nothing better than to sit with you.” 

They made their way out to the garden and took a seat on a little stone bench. It was a fine day, sunny and clear, and the spring sunlight growing warm. Cosette kept Marius’s hand clasped in hers.

“Papa has given his consent, I expect,” she said. 

“He… yes…”

“But?” Cosette prompted.

Marius looked faintly alarmed. “I didn’t say _but_.”

“You didn’t _say_ it,” she agreed. “But it did seem to be there nonetheless. And your face tells me I am right! He has some condition, something you must do? I confess, that is unlike him.” 

“But…” Marius frowned, clearly searching for the words. “But— he must go away. After the wedding.”

Cosette dropped Marius’s hand. She could feel the color draining from her face; it felt like her stomach was swallowing up her heart. “Is— is he so ashamed of me, then?” 

“What?” Marius cried. He seized hold of her hand. “No! No, not at all!” 

“What then? Why?” she demanded. “Oh, is he unwell? He never tells me such things! All last month he had a fever, he swore he was recovered— no, you shake your head— what is it, then?”

But Marius was plainly at a loss. He stuttered out a few syllables, but nothing that could be called a sentence, until at last he said helplessly, “I promised not to tell.”

“What!” Cosette almost laughed. “The two of you keep secrets from me! You are not permitted to have secrets from your wife, we must have all in common. And my father! I know well that he has secrets, he has had them all my life and I have never said a word— but it seems I am not such a good girl as I always was, and so— and so I will not stand for it! I insist you tell me.” 

“But—”

“But nothing! What reason can there be?”

“You say you know he has secrets,” Marius said, looking quite distressed indeed. “Well! He has told them to me, and I tell you they are— they are nothing you could imagine, they are— quite shocking, and— and I believe he fears—”

“That I shall not love him?” Cosette asked. “That cannot be. Tell me. Tell me now. I would go ask him, but I am sure he shall not— but you are to be my husband, and you must tell me. For you may see what my ignorance has led me to. Well, I will not be kept ignorant anymore. I will not.”

Marius was silent for a very long moment. Then he said, “You are right.” 

And he told her. 

Cosette sat silent and still as he spoke, and for some minutes after. Then her eyes filled with tears. 

“Oh, my poor father!” she cried. But he was not her father— but then again, what about him was not a father? Had he not raised her and cared for her? Had he not earned that title? Marius put an arm around her, and she wilted into him and buried her face in his chest. At last, she sat up and wiped her face, took a steadying breath. 

“Well, then,” she said. “We must think what to do. He told you there was an officer, an inspector, who knows his past?”

“Yes,” Marius said. “I cannot imagine that even the most devoted inspector, after all these years, would still insist upon pursuing him… but he seemed to think that that would be the case.” 

“So what may be done? To convince him that he need not hide?” 

Marius frowned, considering. Then he took a breath, and the words he spoke seemed to pain him. “My— my grandfather is… is a person of some consequence. It is very likely he could— do something. Though I cannot think he would be inclined to do me any favors. But I can ask. I will.” 

“Oh?” Cosette prompted. Then with a little smile, she added, “No secrets, you remember?”

“We are estranged,” Marius said, his tone brisk. “When I went to ask his permission to marry it was the first time we have spoken in four years.” 

“What happened?”

“Well.” Marius gave a weak laugh. “Well, in fact, he kept me from my father.” 

* 

“And I think— had she not stopped me then, and insisted that we speak— that I may well have done precisely the same thing to her.” Marius ducked his head, blushing. “But pardon me. I did not mean to speak so much of myself.” 

“You _do_ go on and on about yourself,” Courfeyrac said with a solemn nod. “It’s so difficult for anyone to get a word in edgewise, with the constant barrage of information about you. _Marius._ ” He balled up a stray piece of paper from his desk and pitched at Marius, seated on the bed. Marius didn’t quite manage to duck out of the way in time, and it bounced off the top of his head. “Now that I’ve met your hideous grandfather I begin to understand why you hesitate to speak openly about yourself. But I am not an old royalist cretin, I am your friend. And if that does not convince you, simply imagine if you hadn’t spoken of this to Mademoiselle Fauchelevent— if you had kept it to yourself.” 

He nodded. “Yes. That is plain. But even so— even so, it feels so… I feel so— ashamed. When I speak about myself. That it seems it must be— be wrong, somehow.” He fiddled with the ball of paper that Courfeyrac had tossed at him and added, quietly, “But not with her.” 

“And that’s a start,” Courfeyrac said. 

*

Truth be told, Cosette had never pictured what it would be like to be married. Though if she’d had to guess, she would not have pictured such circumstances, or such haste. 

The place was a church called Saint-Sulpice. This had been Marius’s sole request: the rest he left to her preference. The time was the second week of May, and the weather was beautiful. She could wish that her father did not look so grave and stand so silently, but she assured herself that she would have time enough to make him smile for her again; she and Marius would live with him in Rue Plumet, and she would not let him go away. 

And then, that night, they were alone. And it seemed to dawn on them both at once: that here they were, married— that all the scandal and promise and compromise really had led to this. 

“Suppose—” Marius said. “Suppose we talk?” 

“Yes,” Cosette said. “Let’s.”


End file.
